by Susan Kaye
“Captain Wentworth! Welcome, welcome.” Mr. Musgrove was as enthusiastic with his greeting as if they had not met for months.
“Sir, I am very glad to be amongst you again. I am looking forward to a splendid evening.”
“I told Thomas to bring you in here to start. The ladies can talk of nothing but little Charles and his accident and will not miss us. I hope you do not think me unfeeling, but the boy is on the mend and I find all the stewing to be a bit much. This is why I thought to have you brought in here where we may converse in quiet.”
The room was clearly dedicated to the gentlemen of Uppercross. Along one wall was a fireplace with three rifles and a heavy shotgun arranged above. A desk with papers hastily gathered and stacked supported innumerable ledgers and even a map half-folded to the side. Rods for cleaning pistols and long rifles leant against the wall with a pile of used and clean rags nearby. Two chairs in the corner spoke to Mr. Musgrove and his son’s use of this refuge.
Noticing the Captain’s inspection, Musgrove said, “The room catches everything that my wife will not allow elsewhere.” He smiled and handed Wentworth a glass. “Wives are funny creatures, Captain. They greatly enjoy the fruits of their husband’s labour, yet they resist there being any evidence of that labour anywhere in the house.” He indicated one of the chairs and took the other.
“I was glad to hear your grandson is doing well. I was concerned that his condition might be grave.”
“Oh no, the boy just took a bad fall. Mr. Robinson, the apothecary, replaced the collar-bone, but other than a few cuts and bruises, Charles is quite well.” He hesitated, and then took a drink. “My son should be here soon.”
A tremor of apprehension shot through Wentworth. “I thought he was obliged to remain at home, on account of his son’s injury.” With the son could possibly come the wife.
“Aye, I spoke with him just above an hour ago, and he was determined to come and meet you. There is really no reason for a man to kick his heels about the house when a child is ill. Women know how to care best for them, and it only makes a man irritable to be cooped up. Yes, I know when the children were younger and would all be down at the same time, it was best that I just go out and attend to my business and leave the nursing to Mrs. Musgrove and Old Sarah.”
The conversation was waning when the door opened and a red-faced man, approximately his own age, entered. By his familiar greeting, it was clear he thought to find his father alone. He started when he turned and found the Captain alongside the older man.
Mr. Musgrove smiled and rose. “Captain Wentworth, may I present my son, Charles. Charles, this is Captain Frederick Wentworth.”
Wentworth bowed, then stepped forward and offered his hand. To his shock the man offered not a hand but a pistol. Perhaps he had been a little hasty in leaving his sword. He stepped back and wondered if, perhaps, Charles Musgrove had discovered and highly disapproved of his wife’s past romantic attachment.
“Oh, sorry,” Musgrove said, pulling back the pistol, juggling it, then finally jamming it in his pocket. He offered an empty hand to Wentworth. “I left my files here somewhere, and the trigger needs a bit of attention. Captain, it is an honour to meet you. My family has been anxious to extend its hospitality.” Musgrove’s handshake was crushing and hearty.
“I had a taste of that hospitality yesterday and am glad to receive it once more.” When Musgrove released his hand, he flexed it to relieve the soreness.
“And how do you find Somerset? Is it to your liking or would you rather be at sea?”
“Most sailors would rather be at sea, but I believe I am developing a taste for being ashore. That is a fine pistol,” he added, indicating Musgrove’s pocket.
“Uh, yes. A good piece, if I am able to put things right. Do you shoot for sport, sir?” Musgrove asked, shuffling through papers, ledgers, and trash on the desk. “Ah,” he said, pulling a small pouch from under a mass of handwritten receipts. Leaning against the desk, he pulled out a file and began working on the metal around the trigger. “Because if you do, I have found several spots that are prime for pheasant…and quail if your taste runs that way.”
“I have had little opportunity to shoot of late, so I should be pleased to avail myself of your offer.”
“Good. I have several young dogs I’m training. If we go out tomorrow morning, I can take out that dun-coloured one, Father. I think he’s ready.”
“Yes, certainly old enough.” The older man approached his son. “So you were able to leave the house with little fuss?” the elder Musgrove asked quietly.
“Oh, certainly. As I said earlier, the boy passed a peaceful night. Besides, there’s nothing I can do for him. We decided that we’d both benefit from an evening spent with family.”
“So, Mrs. Charles is here.”
“Yes. I left her with Mama and the girls. They’re going over all the bumps and bruises, one by one.”
Mr. Musgrove lowered his voice. “Do you think it wise to leave Jemima in charge of the boy? His condition is not serious but still…”
“You needn’t worry yourself, Father. His aunt has stayed with him. I tried to entice her to come after dinner so she could meet the Captain, but she thought it best that she stay the entire evening.”
“Well, if she is with him, I will not fret.” He returned to his seat and his wine.
So the younger Mrs. Musgrove is not exactly a dedicated nurse. He understood her motives. Her curiosity about him equalled, perhaps surpassed, his own concerning her. Accepting the challenge, he would do his best to see that he did not disappoint.
“So, Captain, have you come armed for the country? If not, my father has that Beresford hanging over the mantel. A fine weapon.” He looked at it with longing.
Mr. Musgrove laughed. “It is a fine gun, and one day it will be my son’s. Until then, he must satisfy himself with his own collection.”
Charles and his father exchanged looks that said this was an amusing debate of long-standing. Awaiting the answer, Charles’s face twisted as he attacked the trigger mechanism. “Unless Wentworth hunts with a blade, I would appreciate the loan, Father.”
Studying the man at the desk, Wentworth was amused at his own energetic preparations to dislike the fellow. Disliking Charles Musgrove was quite impossible. God love him, Wentworth thought, as he watched him buff the barrel of the gun with the lining of his dress coat. Charles Musgrove was the son of a prosperous farmer and a man of simple tastes. And this was, no doubt, Charles on his best behaviour after a few years of wifely improvements. Trying not to smile, Wentworth speculated how he might have been greeted before such changes for the better.
“I suppose we should join the ladies,” said Mr. Musgrove. The unavoidable meeting was upon him.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The ladies were clustered at one end of the sitting room. Mrs. Musgrove’s ample frame dominated the small circle. Miss Musgrove’s more rounded figure and Miss Louisa’s tall slender one stood to either side of a fourth figure. The woman was obviously the younger Mrs. Musgrove; a small fountain of feathers sprouting from her hair set her apart from the maids. Though her back was to him, he could see that, depending on how one measured such things, the years had been either kind or cruel to Anne.
To some, heft equated prosperity. And since it seemed, looking at both elder Musgroves, this was the fashion at Uppercross, then time had indeed smiled on Mrs. Charles. Her figure was matronly and showed the world that there were children about the cottage and plenty of cream and butter on the table. But, if in quiet moments of girlish reflection, the loss of a slender figure was to be lamented, this woman was in a state of mourning. He, too, felt a twinge at the passing away.
Mr. Musgrove cleared his throat to announce the arrival of the gentlemen. Miss Louisa turned and smiled when she caught sight of him. Her gaze quickly passed over him and her eyes communicated a respectable amount of esteem for the uniform. Leaning into the circle of ladies, she said something that brought an appreciative gaze
and shy smile to Miss Musgrove’s face. The Captain moved to greet the elder Mrs. Musgrove, while the younger ladies discretely primped.
As the lady of the house drew them into the room, he could not help but notice that Mrs. Charles Musgrove had not turned, but still faced away. Perhaps she was just as reluctant to meet again as he. With each step he drew closer and with each step he reproved himself for allowing the portrait to trick him into thinking of Anne as unchanged. The fault was not hers, but his alone for indulging in such foolishness. But, the truth was inescapable. Though he could discern little change in himself over the years, she was certainly altered.
Just a few steps closer and it would all be over. Why did she not turn and face him? Along with her figure, had her manners fled as well? No matter, once the introduction was made, they both would be free of any personal expectations.
“Captain, I would like to introduce you to my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Charles Musgrove.” As the words were said, she finally turned. He could not help but notice Miss Musgrove and Miss Louisa watching with inordinate anticipation.
“Mrs. Musgrove.” He was well into his bow when he realised the face was nothing like the portrait. If he were not mistaken, the woman was even a bit taller. Straightening, he tried not to stare.
“We are quite lucky that Mary and Charles were able to come and join us, Captain. But Mrs. Charles’s sister was so kind as to take charge of little Charles,” the elder Mrs. Musgrove explained.
The explanation was garbled; too many Charleses, and no mention of “Anne.” He heard it, but was still captured by the woman. Her nose, chin, lips, eyes, and hair bore no resemblance to Anne Elliot. But of course, the original owner of these features was alone, nursing her nephew at the Musgrove’s cottage.
Mary Musgrove curtsied. “Captain, it is a pleasure to meet the brother of my father’s tenant.” She looked at him expectantly.
The woman’s voice brought all his confusion to a halt. It was rather too high, a bit thin. Certainly the portrait had no voice, but his memory informed him that Anne’s tones were smooth and warm and a delight to the ear. Though he was not terribly interested in the subject, one afternoon, all those years ago she had read him poetry. He could not remember any titles or authors, but he remembered the voice being hypnotic when combined with the heat of the summer and the charm of her company.
Someone cleared his or her throat, and it brought him out of his ridiculous trance. He noticed everyone looking at him and realised the woman expected some sort of reply. Of course she would. She was the daughter of Sir Walter Elliot and must be given her due .
“Mrs. Musgrove, the pleasure of calling the Hall my home, even for a short period, is one I shall remember for many years to come.” He knew he was laying it on rather thick, but nothing he said was a lie; and he wanted no room for misunderstanding.
A footman entered and announced dinner. Mrs. Musgrove had directed everyone to his or her place, when Mrs. Charles expressed her opinion that it was only proper that Wentworth be seated next to her. The others’ looks of unease and exasperation, particularly Louisa, were impossible not to notice. He took his new seat in hopes that this would be the last time that evening he came under the scrutiny of the younger Mrs. Charles Musgrove.
Chapter Eleven
The dinner was satisfying. The food was plentiful if unimaginative, but the conversation was lively. Each Musgrove had an opinion on every topic, except the elder Mrs. Musgrove. She followed the various conversations around the table, giving proper attention to each participant, smiling and nodding at the appropriate times but adding nothing of her own. The younger Mrs. Musgrove seemed to be above every issue, only adding her usually contrary opinion when a subject was nearly exhausted. Again, he spotted private, knowing looks between the sisters.
Wentworth could not help noticing that most of the opinions voiced, while morally correct and staunchly patriotic, were quite provincial in their scope. He thought it strange that his own physically limited world, encompassing only a few square yards of deck and a few tons of wood, metal, canvas and men, had broadened his attitudes, opinions, and aspirations so that they outstripped all others at the table. This made it very gratifying when Mr. Musgrove and his son deferred to him in any matter not related to sheep, hay, and vermin. He expected such deference from his crew, but from freemen, under no threat of the Articles of War, it was very agreeable.
After the meal, the gentlemen withdrew and planned for shooting the next day. Over glasses of the same excellent whiskey he’d sampled before, Wentworth was made privy to all the best locations for hunting birds and trapping rabbits, foxes, weasels, and the occasional badger offered by the hills and fertile fields of the countryside. Amusing hunting stories of huge successes and colossal failures were related. When all the enjoyment was wrung out of the topic, Mr. Musgrove proposed that they adjourn to the sitting room.
When the gentlemen returned, the room was set up for an impromptu concert. A quick survey of faces made it clear that Mrs. Charles was not altogether happy with the arrangements. After a bit of conversation he learned that the seating failed to measure up, as did the pieces offered by the musicians. Even the selection of refreshments was lacking. In hopes of smoothing the waters, Wentworth asked if he might take the seat nearest her.
“Certainly, Captain. Though this small sofa is rather hard and placed very awkwardly for listening.”
He wasn’t sure how the location of the furniture could affect the clarity of the music, but he deferred to her opinion on the matter. Normally he enjoyed music and welcomed even the most amateurish efforts by any man who brought a pipe or fiddle aboard, but he began to consider the ratio of enjoyment to be had compared to the company he was obliged to keep. It appeared that his good manners would likely do him out of a relaxing evening of entertainment.
When Miss Musgrove began to play the harp, accompanied by Miss Louisa on the piano, everyone settled down to listen. Even Mrs. Charles was attentive and still. They were surprisingly good, though he would have to give higher marks to Miss Musgrove for her musicianship than to her accompanist. None of that mattered to their parents who lavished the praise equally. Looking at the shining faces of the girls, he wondered what it was to be possessed of parents who praised, patted, and bestowed genuine adoration on their children. Perhaps Anne and he were mutually attracted because they had seen the results of grim family circumstances stamped on one another.
“If they practice, they may eventually become quite good,” Mrs. Charles said.
Clearing his mind of niggling thoughts, Wentworth attended to Mrs. Charles’s comments: “You would certainly know that better than I.” Her look of supreme satisfaction made him suspect that she’d taken his statement entirely wrong.
“My sister and I are quite as accomplished as the Miss Musgroves,” she said.
“Yes, as I recall, your sister plays the pianoforte very well.” The room and all its activities came to a halt and grew silent.
The elder Musgroves both were sitting, heads cocked as though they’d not heard quite right. The young ladies stood still, posed like statues in the midst of exchanging sheet music. Mary Musgrove shifted in her seat to face him, a frown growing deeper across her forehead. To the other side, Charles Musgrove was completely still, but the Captain was quite certain he could feel the man’s eye’s boring a hole into his skull. The silence was unnatural as all waited for an explanation of how he might know of Anne’s musical accomplishments.
Mrs. Charles met his gaze with a steely determination to ascertain any and all of the facts. “So, Captain Wentworth, may I know how you are acquainted with my sister?”
He looked about and all the faces bore expressions of acute interest and patience. Shifting in his seat, he cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, it is no secret that many years ago my brother was a curate in these parts.”
Her lips tightened and a brow rose. “Yes, I remember your brother.” Her tone let it be known he was not remembered with any great esteem o
n her part.
“He was the curate at Monkford. When I needed a place to stay for awhile, I came and was with him for a summer. That was the year ’06—”
“I was left at school that summer or we would also have met.”
He nodded and continued. “We met at a party, Miss Elliot and I—or Miss Anne, precisely. However, I did meet your eldest sister and father as well. I was nothing more than an inferior officer, thrown ashore and praying for another commission. We moved in quite different circles.”
His choice of words was specific and not by accident. After the engagement was broken and a short time of reflection, he could not help but believe Anne did think him inferior. The pain of it had fuelled a white-hot passion to shake the dust of Somerset from his shoes and never return. Even now, with circumstances so changed, he felt the sting of his own words.
“We were no more than nodding acquaintances. It is very probable she would not remember me if you were to place my name before her.” He could feel every muscle in his face as he worked to keep his expression unguarded and sincere. There was something like a release in the room, and everyone smiled and went back to what they were about. Mrs. Charles mentioned nothing more concerning her sister and, thankfully, asked no more questions. While she remained silent, he could see her mind was active and her curiosity aroused.
As Miss Musgrove played a solo and Miss Louisa turned her pages, Wentworth considered that there was nothing like a gigantic falsehood to lay a really good foundation for forming a new acquaintance. He could only hope that when Anne was confronted with his recounting of their relationship—and he could not imagine Mrs. Charles would pass up the chance to hear the other side of the story—she would not take too much pleasure in exposing him for a fraud. He would deserve it, but he hoped her quick mind would see that to set the record straight would open her to questions that she herself might not want to answer.
